


The Only Place You've Known

by jundoe



Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jundoe/pseuds/jundoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything changed after you got the call, and sometimes what you think is: you wish you'd had more than three days to be happy - but you still remember how it felt when he was your hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Place You've Known

**Author's Note:**

> The relationship between Briggs and Mike is - or _should_ be - the driving force behind the entire show, but the handling (along with a bunch of other things) fell short as the season progressed. This bit of indulgence arose from discussions about that - it isn't exactly what I think should have happened, but in a much darker Graceland, it might have been... Additional warning: a section contains ambiguous implications about Mike's "daddy issues" (based on information from the official Season 1 website).
> 
> Loosely related to this [(very NSFW) fanart](http://wallshipjournal.tumblr.com/post/88505781545).

  _Why do you sing Hallelujah, if it means nothing to you_

_Why do you sing with me at all?_

          - "Delicate"

 

You want to say you were happiest the first day, or the second, or maybe the third, but the truth of it is that you were just _happy,_ even when you thought you weren't, you were happy, until you got the call. He was your hero, the man you wanted to meet, the man you worked to _be_ , and then you did meet him, and he wasn't, and then he was – in all the ways you needed him, he was. He was your hero. And then you got the call, and he was your job.

But you still remember how it felt when he was your hero.

Everything changed after that, and sometimes what you think is: you wish you'd had more than three days to be happy.

You are an agent.

(You are an agent. You've worked your whole life to get to this point. You are an agent and you can't fuck this up. He was your hero, but he's just a man – he's just another agent (not _just_ another agent) and now he is your job.)

You do your job damned well, and things start falling apart at the cracks. That's how it's supposed to go - but he was your hero, and even though you were only happy for three days, you start falling apart with them. Because you still remember how it felt, and how much you wanted to trust him – you want to trust him, and every time he proves you right, it feels like you're proving yourself wrong. And when it comes down to it, what it means is you know too much to stay, but not enough to go, and you wish you'd never seen anything at all.

What do you see? You see his lies and you see he sees yours. You see his eyes harden, and you see it coming. You've seen it coming forever, but it still takes you by surprise.

(Because he had just been so _nice_. Even when his eyes harden, he can be _so_ nice.)

He had assessed your report, he had commended your ingenuity in keeping your cover – you had smiled and hated how just his casual approval could make you smile, but you didn't hate it, not really – but something hadn't been right, and he had nodded and left quiet. And now he has you in his room, and he's unbuttoned his pants.

"Do you trust me, Mike?"

You don't answer. You can't answer, because you know it's a trap. You watch him, eyes wary, heart in your throat, and you can't answer, and you're watching him slowly – it feels like forever – so very slowly unzipping his fly.

"I trust you," he says, and against your better judgement, before you can even think to stop it, you say:

"Really?"

It is forever, it honestly is, as you watch him – you can't not watch him – reach into his briefs and pull his cock out as he so very casually says, "Yeah."

It's big. You knew it would be big. It's big, and darkly flushed, and half-hard, and you're staring. Your mouth is open, and your lips feel strangely dry, so you wet them, and you don't even think about what that looks like – he shakes it out and it swells further, and your eyes flicker up.

Lazy-lidded, a half-formed smirk – all nonchalance. Your heart is in your throat and you are staring, and what did you expect? Did you think he'd look embarrassed? Did you think he'd be ashamed? You didn't, really, you didn't think any of these things – you couldn't think. He's leaning back against the wall, careless, his girth in his hand, and he points it at you:

"I trust you not to bite."

He says this like he says anything else: _wax on, wax off._ _Ah, baby, just breathe. I trust you not to bite._

"Are you kidding me?" you hear yourself faintly say, and you sound like you feel, strangled and muddied, as if in a dream.

His eyes suddenly go sharp, and that is even more frightening than taking out his cock.

"Why, Mikey? You gonna tell somebody?"

You narrow your eyes and you try to play his game.

"Briggs," you say, but it's an alien sound and you stop right there.

"Is there somebody you gotta tell?"

You know everything he means, and he knows everything this means. He holds all the cards, and now you're on your knees. You don't stop looking up into his eyes, because you want to know he knows exactly what he's doing to you. You want to know, and he knows.

When you close your lips around the turgid head and he pushes the whole thing down your throat, you have to look away because the tears are stinging. When he comes down your throat, you choke, so you swallow - you don't taste it, but you imagine it must taste like defeat.

He was your hero.

 

* * * * * * *

 

But still you push – of course you have to push. This is your job. You've worked your whole life to get to this point. So you push until it happens, and when the jeep rolls up to the pier and he orders you out, you get out and you press your face against the orange bonnet and you spread your legs, and the only thing you wonder is why you hadn't seen it coming this time.

(Because it hadn't come for a while. Yesterday you were in the jeep, and he was just taking you to a sushi joint, because it was good, and it was really good.)

He preps you, because he's not a _monster_ , and it's cold and slick, and you try not to jerk away when his fingers slide up, because God knows you'll need the lube and this is already a blessing, honestly. You try not to scream when he pushes _in_ – oh _GOD_ – but you choke on it, and that chokes up a garbled moan, and you know he likes that, because you can hear him laugh, and because he makes sure you know by easing out a little and slamming it back in. Your cock is pressed up against the grill, and that hurts as well, but you really have to concentrate past the agony in your ass to feel that pain. Every time this happens, you wonder why you're never really prepared for how big you know it is, how much you know it'll hurt.

_The FBI, boy, the best men on earth,_ you think about your grandfather saying, and you want to laugh or you want to cry, even though you know he's never really said that. Your grandfather was your hero, and these men were his heroes. And you're one of them now, whatever that's worth, and you're no hero, and the guy with his cock up your ass is supposed to be the biggest one of all. He was your hero, too. _Sorry, Grampa._ Sorry, Grampa, guess I couldn't use that gun after all. Sorry, Grampa, guess some things never change.

(Not that you were _ever_ going to shoot your father, anyway.)

"I don't want to hurt you, Mike," he keeps his tone even (he always does), but he can't quite keep that breathlessness out of his voice, and his stresses rise and fall with the rhythm of his thrusts, "you know that, right?"

You cough a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob.

"Don't make me hurt you, Mikey.

"Don't make me do it."

And you know he means that warning.

He reminds you of your father, and that makes you sick, but it also makes your cock twitch, and that makes you even sicker. He's too young to be your father, and, oh God, are you thankful for that, but it eats at you that it may be the same thing after all. He's not a monster and he is, you hate and fear him, but you don't – you fear him, but you don't hate him, you don't, you _don't_ , you _can't_. You look at them and you expect to see a monster, but what you see is the man who taught you how to ride a bicycle. The man who taught you how to surf.

(He put his arm around your shoulder, and strolled you down market street. Johnny came along and you screwed up Hector's tacos. You'd thought he had been harsh then, but he hadn't been, he'd just been trying to keep you alive.)

You think of Hector's tacos and the bile rises in your throat, but you don't throw up because that'd make it worse. And then you hear him grunt, and _thrust_ , and you can _feel_ him pulse in you, and you can _feel_ the slimy wetness trickle from you as he pulls out, and you nearly do, anyway, but you gag it back down and you don't.

You hear him zip up.

"I'm going for a walk," he says, and you weren't going to and you knew you shouldn't, but at the last moment, you move your head to see him anyway, and he looks just like he sounds: as if all he'd done was saunter down the pier and ordered you a taco, "Why don't you drive back? I'll see you at home."

You manage to nod, and wonder if he'd said 'home' deliberately, then wonder why you wondered, because of course he did. You know you shouldn't, but you can't help it, you watch him walk away. The strong back, the swaggering hip, that calculated insouciance; he takes your breath away.

You peel yourself off the orange bonnet, pull up your pants, and _then_ you stagger to a side to throw up into the choppy waters of the harbour. God bless the fishes, they need never know.

And then you drive back, because he told you to, and there is nothing, really, nothing else that you can do.

 

* * * * * * *

 

"I think he suspects I'm talking to you."

Lies and half-lies and cover-up truths. (Your lies are your life.) Once, you'd almost enjoyed these meetings with Badillo – not because you liked the guy (you liked him well enough, but) – it was the one place you didn't have to lie. But now you've collected enough lies that you have to lie here too.

"You think he suspects? Is it something he said? Something he did?"

You stare at him for the longest time. You're not sure if your incredulity is because he might know, or because he might know nothing at all. You weigh up if you should actually say it, then you realise you were never going to – you were never going to tell anyone. You don't even want to.

"Just a couple of things he says around me. I think he suspects...I don't think he _knows_."

"It'd make sense that he's suspicious. Just as long as he doesn't _know_...and I can trust you to throw him off the scent, can't I, Mike?"

"Of course.

Of course you can."

 

* * * * * * *

 

This time, you prep yourself before you go back – you worry that it might make him angrier, but you calculate it might be worth the risk. You have to steel yourself before you enter his room: you take a breath, and knock, and turn the knob. The air is thick with incense, and you close the door behind you. He sits in the Lotus. He looks like a fucking saint.

"We didn't even go through much this week," you wonder how much he knows about Badillo, how much his eyes harden at your weekly psych summons, or maybe if he doesn't even think it at all, "these psych evals are a waste of time."

You stand there, in silence. He says nothing, till he's done with his inner count. Then he opens his eyes and slowly looks at you.

"Tell me, Mikey."

His voice sounds heavy. Your heartbeat quickens, but you don't know why you're starting to feel so upset.

"Level with me.

"Are you talking to someone?"

He sounds worn. He looks worn. He looks weary, tired, almost _old._ His eyes won't break away from yours, and they are honey. He looks almost _kind_.

Your heart is thudding out of your chest, and you feel _sorry_. You feel like you hate to disappoint him and you're _so_ upset. You want to tell him – tell him _everything_ , and maybe he'll forgive you. You're so _sorry_ , and you have to lie.

"No, I'm not," you say. Your bottom lip is trembling, you swallow. You repeat, fervently:

"I swear, I'm not.

"I'm not."

Desperately, as your vision mists over, just that bit. Willing him to believe. Willing yourself to believe. Wishing with all your heart it were true.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Two days later, you take it all back when he takes you on the side of the porch.

 

**END**


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